


Thrill Me

by heavensfallingaroundus



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Kingsman (Movies), Rocketman (2019), Rocketman (2019) RPF, Take That (Band)
Genre: Breathplay, Brief reference to infidelity, Celebrity Crush, Crush at First Sight, Dom/sub, Inspired by Music, M/M, Musicians, Please don't overlook the plot, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, Unsafe Sex, and my everlasting love for Gary Barlow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 08:03:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19719562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensfallingaroundus/pseuds/heavensfallingaroundus
Summary: They’re halfway through filmingEddiewhen Matthew Vaughn first approaches the subject of an original soundtrack. He casually lets slip one morning at breakfast, like it’s no big deal, that he’s been talking to none other than Gary Barlow about it. For months on end, back and forth, sinceKingsman, apparently. And the man is already hard at work on the music.Taron does his best not to choke on his baked beans, then, and tells Matthew he’s really looking forward to it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been obsessed with Take That since 2006. Now it's 2019, and these two smooth motherfuckers have appeared out of thin air and destroyed my life.  
> This is just the rambly, 10k+ words result of discovering that my favourite singer-songwriter of all time has written a song for Taron. And a very sexy one, too.  
> Taron has made appreciative comments about the man himself on a number of occasions, namely during this [ interview](https://youtu.be/gJqCJW6QRd8).  
> I'm kind of sorry, kind of not. See you on the other side.

They’re halfway through filming _Eddie_ when Matthew Vaughn first approaches the subject of an original soundtrack. He casually lets slip one morning at breakfast, like it’s no big deal, that he’s been talking to none other than Gary Barlow about it. For months on end, back and forth, since _Kingsman_ , apparently. And the man is already hard at work on the music.

Taron does his best not to choke on his baked beans, then, and tells Matthew he’s really looking forward to it.

He hasn’t seen Gary in the flesh since their brief exchange at the _Kingsman_ premiere—a selfie, a few pleasantries, loads and loads of starstruck smiles.

Another instance that instantly comes to mind is the time where Taron practically got called a chav by Jonathan Ross— _he’s showing us his balls_. He’d retorted with possibly the best, sassiest comeback in the history of television— _I’ve actually been told by my publicist not to crease the Armani_ , but it had still been a fairly humiliating affair, what with Colin bloody Firth sitting right next to him, and the whole of fucking Take That watching from backstage. Taron could not remember ever liking Jonathan Ross, anyways, and since he moved to iTV there’s really no point of him anymore. Everyone knows Graham Norton is where it’s at, right now, after all.

Taron _loves_ Take That. Cannot remember one single occurrence of getting through a karaoke singing _Never Forget_ and not bawling his eyes out by the end. Of course, their song for _Kingsman_ had been a really big fucking deal. What a bloody tune that was. But this, now, Gary Barlow writing for _Eddie_ —it somehow feels like a whole ‘nother deal.

Taron has mixed feelings, mostly consisting of excitement and anxiety, while he sips his Yorkshire Tea, and waits for Matthew to elaborate.

A couple of months later, Matthew invites Gary on set. At this point, Taron is more than thankful that the outdoor scenes in Germany are done and dusted, because, frankly, he’s been feeling pretty fucking self-conscious in all that tight-fitting ski gear—even though people keep telling him how good his thighs and bum look. That the Internet will have the same opinion, by the time the film is out. Taron still sorely doubts that, but nods and delivers a coy smile every time, anyways, because what else can he do, really.

The point being, by the time Matthew drags Gary out to the London studio where they’re filming the home scenes at the Edwards’, Taron is in high-waisted jeans, a boxy 80’s jumper, and thick dorky spectacles. And he’s never been happier to be wearing _normal clothes_ , no matter how scandalously vintage they are, in his life.

Taron finds it hard to believe how overwhelmed he gets, all over again, meeting Gary. He thought he’d gotten over being awestruck in the presence of _real_ celebrities after finally getting used to having Hugh fucking Jackman around, he’s been pretty proud of himself for that one, by the way—except no, it turns out, he’s not really out of the woods on that front, yet.

For the second time in just a few months, he struggles to repress memories of himself as a teenager blasting _Back for Good_ from his stereo, and the few tears he spilled, as a twenty-year-old, when he first heard _Patience_ on the radio. He doesn’t really manage, though, which means he’s still smiling like a lunatic by the time he’s shaking Gary’s hand.

Taron gushes over him for a couple very long minutes, during which things are said, like _please, Mr. Barlow was me dad, just Gary, eh?_ and _I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to hang out properly after last time_. Taron watches Gary’s jaw flex and his eyebrows arch while he speaks, and blushes furiously, because the man might well be one of his favourite musicians of all time, but, first and foremost, he’s dishy as fuck.

Gary tells Taron he’s written an original song for _Eddie_ , and that Matthew has been singing praises of his _wonderful voice_ _and stage presence_. How he used to sing as a little Welsh boy and how, nowadays, he’s the absolute king of karaoke nights—Gary too, like Taron, is a _huge_ George Michael fan.

Bottom line, Gary would love for Taron to be the lead singer on the track. He then jokes that Hugh should definitely be relegated to doing backing vocals on the track, since it’s not like he’s _that_ good, anyways. Taron laughs nervously at that, and secretly wants to down an entire bottle of tequila. He manages to say _thank you, it’s a great honour_ , and that he will do his best. Gary tells him that he has no doubt he will.

They all—Matthew, Taron, Hugh—get invited to Gary’s massive London house a week after wrapping. Gary has the best and biggest home studio in the game, _of course_ he does, and only just manages to barely stop himself from geeking out about all the equipment, the keyboards, the synths, the vintage sound effects pedals he’s been collecting since the 90’s.

Gary then plays them the demo of his new song, _Thrill Me_ , and they’re all, quite literally, in awe. Matthew’s expression is not one of surprise, probably because he’s heard it before, the all-knowing, far-reaching tosser, but Taron and Hugh are looking at each other smiling like big fools.

The vibe is pure 80’s—snappy synth, banging drums, explosive chorus, catchy as all hell. The recording is quite raw, but Gary’s voice is clear and beautiful, and _is that Mark Owen on backing vocals right there?_

The lyrics, well, they’re something else. _Weirdly sexy_ , Taron finds himself thinking. _Bit racy for_ Eddie _, aren’t they?_ But, by God, it’s impressive how perfectly they fit the melody. He’s immediately sold.

“Right-o!”, Gary exclaims, rubbing his hands together. “That’s the general idea. What do you boys think?”

Taron feels Hugh’s eyes pierce his right temple, so he diverges his gaze from Gary back to him. Hugh has a wide smile on his face.

Taron can’t really find the words. No-one has ever written a song for _him_ before. The responsibility is enormous, but so is the honour.

“I think it’s a dang right tune, Gary”, he hears himself saying. Gary smiles broadly at him.

_And I’d better not fuck this one up, really._

Gary has managed to snatch Abbey Road Studio One for just three hours. Taron still thinks he’s dreaming when he walks inside and sees photos of so many familiar faces on the walls, imagining all the legends whom have passed through those corridors and stood in the exact same recording booths that he and Hugh are now occupying.

Taron’s had two Red Bulls, and his heart is thumping like African drums. He’s been sleeping like absolute shite for a couple of days, all the anticipation building up in his bloodstream refusing to give him a break, especially between 2 and 5 AM, apparently. It’s almost become like a _thing_ , now.

Hugh, on the other hand, looks like he’s born to be in that booth. He’s an absolute national—no, _international_ treasure, after all, and he’s been a star performer on stage and off since before Taron was conceived, so it only makes sense.

That being said, Taron is practically shaking. Hugh must notice his discomfort, because, when Gary comes in on the intercom “You boys ready?”, he raises one finger, mouths _one minute, mate_ , takes his headphones off, and shifts closer to Taron.

“Just breathe, Taron, yeah? You’re great, we all know you are an amazing singer. Show ‘em what you can do, hmm?”

_Look at Hugh, being Eddie’s rock and now my own personal hype man. Someone, please, build this man a statue._

Taron nods, softly, unconvinced, and mentally slaps himself in the face to try and get a grip.

He then whispers _thank you_ to Hugh, who smirks, ruffles his hair and returns to his booth. He shoots Gary an OK sign, and Gary winks back at the pair of them.

“Take it away, boys!”

The music kicks in. Taron finds himself reading the first verse from the sheet of paper he has in front of him for the millionth time, and he delivers it, he hopes, decently. When Taron meets Hugh’s gaze during the bridge, and finds the man grinning feverishly back at him, he finally understands he really _can_ do this. He is, in fact, doing this right now.

They have the song down in just three takes. Gary can’t stop applauding, Hugh pats him on the back, and Taron wonders if he’s ever been this happy.

Dang, he loves singing.

 _Banger_.

There’s an album launch party for _Fly_ , the soundtrack album Gary has curated for _Eddie_ , but Taron can’t go. He’s wanted in LA to discuss his new project, an animated movie where he will, incidentally, be singing again.

He shoots Gary a text, however, on the night of the event—yeah, they’re _texting_ now. Not all the time. But still. Big fucking deal.

_Break a leg tonight, Gaz. Thank you for writing that song._

He smiles broadly down at his phone when he reads Gary’s reply, which comes in only a few seconds later.

_You’re so very welcome. You’re a bloody star, Taron Egerton._

Next year he’s on set for _Kingsman_ 2\. It’s the first day, and everyone’s positively buzzing. It’s so great seeing Colin and Mark again, as well as finally meeting Pedro, Halle, Channing, Julianne, and, of course, the bloody Big Lebowski himself. He’s been excited about today for weeks. There’s so much talent in the room, the air is thick with anticipation, and Taron finds himself, once again, like almost every day of his life, really, thanking God for Matthew Vaughn.

Then, just as Taron thinks the day can’t get any better, couldn’t possibly, really, who else should stroll in the readthrough room but _Elton Hercules John_. His heart skips a few beats, and he chokes on the Diet Coke he’s been sipping on.

Elton is wearing a black Adidas trackie. The symbol on the jacket is bedazzled in Swarowski crystals, as are the stripes on the sleeves and trousers. He’s sporting a pair of outrageous Gucci sunnies, black, green and red, also covered in crystals. And Taron is immediately in love.

They spend a few hours together one day. They have lunch, and it’s lovely and fun and _easy_ , so easy, in fact, Taron never in a million years would have dared hoping. They talk about everything and anything. Taron confesses the first song of Elton’s he’s ever listened to is _Can You Feel The Love Tonight_ , and that causes Elton to chuckle. _So young you are, Taron. So damn young._

“I’ve heard great things about your singing, too, by the way.”

“Oh my God, you’ve actually seen that, haven’t you.”

Taron is referring to his brief spell as a giant cartoon gorilla, playing piano and blasting _I’m Still Standing_ like there’s no tomorrow. He can’t help but cringing at this, just a little bit at first, then fully. His cheeks proceed to go through several shades of crimson when he says, apologetically, “Yeah, so, I’m very sorry for butchering one of your greatest songs.”

“Oh, that’s just _preposterous_ and you know it, Taron”, Elton dismisses him, lightly tapping his forearm on the table they’re sat at. He’s sporting a big old grin on his sweet face. “Plus, Gary talks _so_ highly of you, you know.”

Crimson fades into to purple, now, as Taron’s mind takes a trip back to Abbey Road. He can’t believe Gary has been saying nice things about him to _Elton John_ , of all people. He briefly wonders what his life even is, at that point, what he’s ever done that’s so good in order to deserve all this, but then pudding arrives, and he’s so very grateful for the waiter’s interruption, he almost gets up and kisses him. He’s glad he can now drown his feelings in cheesecake and smother them in raspberry coulis, because the amount of love and appreciation he’s receiving from his all-time idols is all getting a bit much to handle, to be honest. He’s kind of scared it’ll go to his head.

Later, as they make their way back to set together—Taron’s off today, they’re filming Elton and Colin’s scenes in the bowling alley, but he’s still there because _Elton_ has asked him to, and _how fucking crazy does that even sound_ —Matthew grabs them both to one side and sits them down for a chat.

Taron is staggered when it’s not Matthew who speaks first, but the Big Man himself.

“I’ve been thinking it’s time I tell my version of the story to the world”, he starts, solemnly, and he addresses Taron directly. Taron works out that, whatever he’s going to say, Matthew has already been briefed. And now he’s tense. He nods, expectantly, waiting for Elton to continue.

“My husband David, Matthew and I have been talking about a making biopic on my life”, he specifies, and now he’s reaching out to grab Taron’s arm on the table. He squeezes it, gently, while he says, “I know we don’t know each other very well, but Matthew simply hasn’t shut up about you for a _second_ in the last few months.” He pauses and points a finger at Matthew, sniggering. “I must admit that after spending some quality time with you, I think I get why. And I reckon I don’t need any more convincing. I can only trust _you_ to play me, Taron.”

Taron fleetingly feels like he’s been run over by a bus. The _enormity_ of what Elton’s just said strikes him harder than any other piece of news he’s ever received in his twenty-six-and-a-half years on this planet.

“M-me?”

His voice is shaking already, and _oh, God, I’m going to bawl my eyes out, aren’t I_.

Elton nods, fervently, and shoots a look in Matthew’s direction. And, boy, Matthew’s excited, so excited, he’s bumping his fists down on the table, beaming like a schoolboy.

“It’s going to be so _good_ , T.”, he says, satisfied, proud, reaching out to pat Taron on his right shoulder. “ _You’re_ going to be so good.” His eyes are twinkling.

Taron really can’t believe his ears. He’s so shocked, he can’t even bring himself to smile back at Matthew. Or Elton. Or smile at all, for that matter. He resolves to simply rest his head on his hand, elbow perched up on the table, incredulous.

“Y-you mean… You don’t even want me to _audition_ for this?”

When it sounds too good to be true, it usually is, isn’t it? It’s not like he’s _that_ good, anyways. _Right?_

Elton and Matthew exchange a glance, the silence between them now pregnant. And then they both burst into fits of laughter.

“Oh, _please_ , Taron. I thought you knew I’m in love with you by this point.”

 _Matthew Vaughn. Please, leave your wife and kids and bloody run away with me, will ya_.

Elton comes in right after.

“Couldn’t possibly let anyone else tackle this, Taron. Please, will you do it? For me?”

A tear escapes Taron’s left eye when he looks into Elton’s eyes.

“How could I refuse.”

They hug, and that’s when Taron breaks down for real.

Later that afternoon, Taron shoots Gary a text.

_Gary Barlow, you absolute sneaky bastard._

The lack of context must have Gary baffled, because he gets back to him fairly quickly.

_Yus, that’d be me. To what do I owe the pleasure?_

Taron smirks at the phone and sends him a selfie he took with Elton in the parrot costume, earlier that day, and he captions it _We’ve got news_. Taron knows he’s allowed to spill the beans, because Gary and Elton catch up at least once a week so, of course, he already knows.

_Legends, the pair of you. You’re going to be a great Elton. Proud of you, mate._

Taron can’t stop smiling for the rest of the week.

It’s readthrough day again, for _Rocketman_ this time, when Taron sees Richard Madden, properly, for the first time. He remembers staring at him across a crowded room at an awards event, once, but being too immersed in a conversation—or perhaps, more honestly, too shy and awestruck, to actually go up and introduce himself.

So now, after months, no, _years_ of people not shutting up about how much he would get on with Richard, here he finally is, shaking his hand and hearing him say _it’s a pleasure to finally meet ye_ , his voice like silk, thick with brogue.

Seeing him up close at last lets Taron appreciate that Richard really and truly is the most handsome man he’s ever lain his eyes on. His sharp jawline, his eyes an almost unconceivable shade of blue— _green? turquoise? Ah, who knows_ —his lips full, his hair just _perfect_ —gosh, is that gray streak natural?

 _Fuck my life, I want to die in this man’s arms_.

Taron manages, he doesn’t quite know how, to keep it together to reply that the pleasure is all his.

And then, like that, they’re off.

It takes so little for Taron to fall for Richard, it’s truly and completely fucking ridiculous.

Taron quickly develops the weird habit of following Richard around on set, everywhere, all the time, like a lovestruck Labrador puppy. Richard doesn’t seem to mind, however, judging by how much he’s touching Taron every time they’re doing anything together.

Richard always faintly smells like some expensive sandalwood cologne and cigarette smoke, and Taron can’t get enough of him.

Taron laughs so genuinely and so hard at Richard’s jokes, he sometimes thinks he will burst. He also reckons everyone else has probably noticed the fact that he has a humongous crush, because the _looks_ he’s getting from Jamie and Dexter are, to say the least, very full of meaning. And Taron’s embarrassed, angry at himself for being this obvious, but he’s never ever felt like this before, and he can’t help himself, really.

Taron can’t help but notice that Richard is always buzzing around him, too, though. Getting him water after he sings live on set, dragging him out for a cigarette break, showing up with a couple of cold ones in the hot summer evenings they’re getting used to spend in either one of their trailers, chatting, bonding, flirting. It’s all very platonic, except Taron’s skin burns every time Richard barely grazes his arm after making a joke, and he doesn’t _want_ to know, he doesn’t know, Christ, he knows full well why that is, he just lacks the balls to do anything about it.

Nothing like this has ever happened to him before. Not with a man, anyway. There’s been kisses, sloppy handjobs, the occasional blowjobs, but never any _feelings_. This, well, this is different. Powerful. Devastating.

Sweltering lust has him up all night after they film the _Tiny Dancer_ dialogue. Richard is so smooth, so elegant, so undeniably attractive, even when portraying one of the biggest assholes in music management history, and Taron doesn’t quite know what to do to with his hands when he’s left alone. It doesn’t take him that much time to figure it out, however, and he quickly finds himself falling into a routine of wanking off in the shower, every single night, whispering Richard’s name as he climaxes.

It’s okay, it’s not like he’s doing anything wrong. _Yet._

And then, all of a sudden, everything changes.

When Richard, as John Reid, first kisses him, Taron finds himself sighing in his mouth a lot louder than he’d been anticipating. The resolution of this weird tension that has been building up between them, albeit fake, albeit for the cameras, has him melting into Richard’s touch in no time.

Taron is aware of how _right_ this feels. Even if it scares him a bit, he analyses his own mind further—quite dangerous, at times, admittedly—and he’s not very surprised to read the words _ruin me, Richard_ plastered all over the walls of his brain.

_Fuck._

Richard has been instructed to pull on Taron’s T-shirt, so he does just that, while he’s kissing him, and Taron’s mind is so clouded with lust at this point, he thinks he might self-combust. His thoughts are so filthy, he would probably be blushing in any other context. Except it’s hard, literally, so hard, to focus on anything else than Richard in this moment, especially as he ever so carefully takes Taron’s statement specs off and then grabs his face in his big, strong hands once again.

The door to the scorching hot steam room that Taron’s brain has transformed into is momentarily flung open, and he hears Dexter shout _he’s still following the script, get it together and do the same._ Taron briefly wonders whether it has been all in his head, and he’s thankful when he realises that, yes, it has.

Richard’s lips are impossibly soft, and resisting the temptation to bite them takes every ounce of self-control in Taron’s body. Hell, he _tastes_ so good, like light tobacco and minty toothpaste, and just the tiniest hint of the chocolate ice cream they both had at lunchtime. Richard doesn’t hold back, Taron is pleased to notice, and deepens every other kiss they exchange, smiling sweetly against his lips when he finally rests Taron—sorry, _Elton_ , on the mattress.

They’re both naked by this point, and it’s a really, _really_ big deal. Taron feels Richard everywhere, his touch just barely rough at times, his chest hair rubbing against Taron’s own next-to-hairless skin, and by then Taron just wants to send everyone else away and allow Richard to do whatever he pleases with his body.

When he can’t help himself anymore, because Richard is now kissing his neck and he thinks he’s never been so aroused in his whole life, Taron _bites_ Richard’s bicep, letting the soft, warm skin linger for just a second in his mouth, before, reluctantly, letting go. He hears a soft moan escape Richard’s lips, which are still very busy working on his neck, and Taron’s already rock hard cock twitches, imperceptibly—or maybe _very obviously_ , really. He’ll never know. He doesn’t want to think about it.

Taron feels his heartbeat in his ears when he flips Richard on the bed—he doesn’t know where he’s got the strength to do _that_ from—flexes one of his straightened legs so the top of his thigh touches Richard’s left buttock, and feels Richard’s legs close around his pelvis, naturally, like it’s something they’ve done a hundred times before, like they’re born to be like this. Richard’s heels are on his bum, pressing softly, getting their genitals even closer together, and, wow, it feels incredible. Excruciating, but incredible. Richard’s hands are on his back, gripping and stroking him—rough, just a tad.

Taron is far gone by then. The proximity of their naked bodies, complete and absolute, the butterfly kisses he’s planting on Richard’s lips and all over his face, Richard’s scent, quite intoxicating—this all sends Taron into a lust-driven frenzy, and he’s pretty sure Richard’s hard too, beneath him, and he doesn’t quite know what to make of that.

It feels like everyone else has disappeared, and it’s just him and Richard, naked on that bed, fiercely making out and grinding on each other like horny teenagers, as if nobody’s watching. It does, at least, until Dexter very audibly calls “Cut!”, everyone else behind the camera starts shuffling about, and the moment is all but shattered.

Then Richard whispers to Taron, in an impossibly small voice, only a few millimetres from his lips still, and Taron’s heart does a somersault.

“I really like ye, T.”

They both have girlfriends, but it doesn’t really seem to be a problem. For either of them. They’re actors, after all, they kiss other people for a living, don’t they?

So it’s entirely normal for them to linger a second too long before parting in the closet at the studio where John interrupts Elton’s recording of _Don’t Go Breaking My Heart_ —Dex will cut that, anyways.

It’s also completely not weird when Taron tries to bite Richard’s thumb clean off when Richard absent-mindedly caresses his lower lip with it, because that simple gesture sends thrills down his spine and, immediately, blood pools in his lower abdomen. God, he just wants to _devour_ Richard sometimes. Somehow, Taron can bet his Mam’s life _that_ will stay in the final cut—because Dexter can’t really scrap _everything_ , can he. Also, Dex seems to appreciate how needy Taron is getting around Richard these days—it’s exactly what he needs John and Elton’s twisted love story to look on camera.

The nights together in their trailers become longer. Alcohol is ever-present, in moderation, of course, as are countless cigarettes and the occasional blunt, usually Richard’s, which Taron can never say no to. Mostly, though, there’s tons of snogging each other against every possible surface, soft or hard, doesn’t matter, as long as there’s physical contact and heavy breathing and stubble rash.

It’s all they do—they kiss. Not for a lack of trying on Taron’s part, for the record. Maybe the situation _is_ a little weird, after all, Taron ponders, every time he’s about to reach his hand to unbuckle Richard’s belt and Richard’s hands are instantly on his, blocking them, humming against his lips, effectively slaughtering him with a shake of his head and his sweet, deadly eyes whispering _no, not yet_.

Taron tells Jamie, because he can’t really keep it to himself anymore. Jamie is silent for a moment, after Taron is done with his incoherent little speech about how he can’t work out whether Richard is torturing him on purpose, or he’s just not that into it, into _him_ , more precisely. Jamie looks into his bleeding soul with those icy gray eyes and shakes his head. Ah, he probably knows something, doesn’t he. Taron briefly wonders whether it’s normal to be this fucking clueless every single day God sends on this earth. Everybody seems to be aware of something he isn’t, at almost any given time. He’s had enough, so he gets slightly rude.

“Oh, _for_ _God’s sake_ , Jamie. Spit it out, will ya?”

Jamie tries the Billy Elliot stare. It doesn’t work.

Richard walks past in that exact moment and winks at them.

“Alright, boys?”, he shoots, charming as ever, his Reid suit crisp and falling perfectly on his frame.

Taron fails to look smooth. He’s sweating a little. Manages a nod, a wide grin, and bites his lower lip, while Richard turns his back on them and goes on to being fussed over by a costume designer.

Taron feels Jamie’s eyes on him, so he spins round, abruptly, to face him once again.

“What.”

Jamie _sneers_.

“Nothing, mate.” Emphasis on the word _mate_. His Teesside accent thicker than ever.

Taron is dead serious now, and only a few beats away from smacking Jamie in his stupid handsome face.

“Stop being such a little twat, J, and tell me what’s going on.”

“Taron, mate, honestly, I’ve got no fucking clue. We don’t talk about you specifically, not in _that_ way anyways.”

“What is it, then?”

Jamie looks conflicted. Ponders for a few, long seconds before he finally blurts, “I think Rich is quite kinky that way.” Pauses, bites his lip. “He told me once—we were having gin, for God’s sake, you know how gin gets me. I started asking personal questions. Like, _very_ personal. Managed to gather that he likes being dominant in the bedroom. Making people beg for it. Hasn’t really developed any further, but you get the general picture, don’t ya?”

Taron briefly wonders what had been in that gin to get Jamie to even _dream_ of asking such questions, and Richard to actually deliver such detailed answers, but then it all hits him at once, and he gulps. Soon after, all moisture seems to have left his mouth, as his mind wonders towards images of Richard tying him to his bed and refusing to touch him until he’s in tears and pleads to be put out of his misery.

The vision Taron has is, in a word, _profane_ , and he can’t stop thinking about it for days on end.

Next time they’re alone, Taron decides to taste the waters. He feels like a right mug for doing it like this, but he decides to go down the Jamie Dornan route to introduce the subject, because he’s worked with him recently and that makes it kind of plausible. Plus, Richard knows Jamie a little, too—they’ve met on a number of occasions, but never worked together properly.

So they talk about _The Fall_ , gush over Gillian Anderson in passing, and then Taron asks him what he makes of _Fifty Shades_. Which, of course, is the point of the whole bloody detour via everyone’s favourite Belfast born bearded hunk.

They have a few Coronas in them by the time the question is actually asked, and Richard is looking very comfortable and just a little tipsy, sprawled on the small sofa in front of where Taron is sitting, on a battered armchair.

“Yeah, not that bad, really. I actually read the books when they came oot.” Richard comes in, and the revelation knocks the air out of Taron. Just a jiffy.

“Alright, Madden”, Taron retorts, appreciatively, wanting to sound cool and fuel the locker-room talk as best he could. “You into that sort of stuff, or…?”

Casual. Smooth. Boys will be boys, right?

Richard smirks. Wraps his luscious lips around the bore of the Corona bottle—a little to lasciviously for it to be done casually, and takes a swig of beer. Taron’s blood boils in his veins.

“Might be.”

_Oh._

“Might?”

Taron is feeling lucky.

“ _Definitely_ am.”

“Right”, is all Taron can muster.

“Right”, Richard comes, seconds after. He’s still penetrating Taron with those fucking eyes, and his grip is firm on the bottle, knuckles a little white. _Clenching._

Taron feels brave all of a sudden. He thinks he understands, but he wants to be absolutely sure.

“Is this why…”

“Yes”, Richard interrupts him.

“Alright, how can you know—”

“Is this why I don’t let ye touch me, leave ye hanging, don’t just get it over with and fuck ye on every possible surface, d'ye mean?”

_Yeah, something like that._

Taron is left speechless. Although it happens at least ten times a day around Richard, lately, this silence between them is new, different, and so _delightfully_ _dirty_.

“Hmm-hmm?” Taron nods, a little more frantically than he would have liked, but oh, what’s the point, now, really.

Richard takes a last, quick gulp off his bottle, holds the neck with two fingers, and lets it fall on the carpet on the floor between them. It lands with a loud thud, but doesn’t break into a million pieces, which Taron is weirdly thankful for.

Richard then gets up from the couch, takes one step in Taron’s direction, and leans over where Taron is still sat, now a little uncomfortably, in his chair. Richard’s arms come to Taron’s sides, on the armrests, and Taron’s gaze shifts from Richard’s now contracted triceps to his glorious, stern face.

_Ohgodohgodohgod._

He’s so in control, so imposing, so _dominant_. There are really no other words to describe this version of Richard Madden, in a white T-shirt and jeans, positively looming over Taron.

“Rich…” Taron starts, just before Richard’s right hand comes to rest on his cheek, caressing it lightly, and he’s at loss for words, once again.

“Ye’ve just never asked nicely enough, have ye, T.”

Richard’s going in fully, and Taron doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anything more in his whole life, so he follows him in right away.

“I—I’m sorry, Rich. Please? I’ll do anything. I’ll be _good_.”

Richard _groans_ as he leans in further, grips Taron’s cheek harder, and kisses him. Rough, dirty, _hungry_. Blood rushes directly to Taron’s lower abdomen as he closes his eyes and tastes Richard’s mouth. Beer, lemon and honey, from the sweets Richard has been sucking on for the last few hours while sipping on the Coronas.

The position is awkward, so Richard doesn’t hesitate to break away. Taron wants to get up, grab him and snog him good and proper, but, before he can move a single muscle, Richard’s hand is on his chest, pushing him back against his seat.

“No, ye stay there.”

_Oh, alright then._

Richard’s gaze is fixed on Taron as he walks around the armchair and he stops after reaching Taron’s right side. He then grabs hold of Taron’s hand and presses it against his own crotch. Taron feels Richard’s bulge—thick, impossibly hard, pulsating underneath the rough denim he’s sporting that night, and fails to repress a loud moan. It’s the first time Richard’s let him touch him like this. He’s only feeling him from above his jeans, and yet he already thinks himself the luckiest man alive. He looks up at Richard, who reaches out a hand and starts stroking the side of his head, affectionately, but also holding him in place.

“Will ye be a good boy for me, Taron?” Richard is now saying, Scottish, filthy, and Taron’s eyes almost burn with desire at the sight of him. The feel of the light friction between his hand and Richard’s hard cock beneath his fingers—and a thick layer of denim, but’s almost irrelevant right now—is scorching his skin. He nods, fervently, still looking up at him. Expectant. Eager.

Richard smiles, but his expression is still stern. The hand that’s caressing Taron’s hair suddenly starts gently pulling it, and Taron’s head automatically tilts even further back. It doesn’t hurt. Not yet.

“Ye have tae _say_ it, Taron.”

“I—I’ll be good, I promise. I’ll be a good boy for you, Richard.”

The shadow of a smile ghosts Richard’s lips, and his hand softens again on Taron’s head.

“Good.” That brogue again. _Damn._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I'm a sick fuck and I'm going to let you wait a bit for the rest.  
> What can I say. I'm evil like that. If it's any consolation, it's already written and just needs a bit of polish--erm, sorry, maybe lube would be better, given the circumstances, eh?  
> Thank you for powering through this, you're real troopers if you have.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taron tries being a good boy, but fails miserably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so, I'm very sorry for being a tease, yesterday.  
> By the way, just as a side note, I haven't re-read this part as many times as I would have liked to, because I just couldn't handle it anymore. I know there might be a few mistakes, and I'm asking you to forgive me and please ignore them, if you can manage.  
> That being said, here it is, have it, it's all yours.

All of a sudden, the hand in Taron’s hair is gone, and Richard’s moving away from him. Taron is confused, his left hand is still burning from touching Richard, knowing he’s now hot and hard because of him. He looks up at him with what, he can only hope, are puppy eyes.

_Good boy, good boy, good boy._

“Take off yer clothes, then”, Richard commands, just before plopping back down on the couch, his legs spread obscenely wide, the tight-fitting denim accentuating his muscular legs and his now raging bulge. He then pulls slightly at the collar of his white T-shirt, to loosen it from his neck. And, what do you know, some of his chest hair _finally_ shows through. His chest hair, by the way, being one of Taron’s many weaknesses when it comes to Richard.

Richard’s right thumb then finds its way to his mouth, and he bites down on the side of it, smiling. If Taron didn’t know what he’s up to, he’d say Richard is almost being shy, dropping is whole dominant act altogether. Except he’s not. Because, next second, he mouths _go on_ through his teeth, still nibbling at his thumb, eyebrows arching, expressively.

_Oh, well, here goes nothing._

Taron is only wearing a sky-blue T-shirt and a pair of gray shorts, no socks, no shoes, and _no underwear_ , because, sue him, this is his trailer and he does love to kick back and relax after a long day of shooting and a well-deserved shower. Nevermind it’s also bloody August and hot as Satan’s arse, nowadays. He hopes Richard will appreciate that particular detail, at least. _Taron's_ arse, that is. Not Satan’s.

Taron drinks in the sight of Richard in that moment, because he’s simply _too much_ , and he wants to see him like this every single time he closes his eyes, from now to eternity.

Taron then starts to work on his T-shirt, pulling it over his head a lot more slowly than he normally would, trying to channel his inner stripper—he doesn’t have one, by the way, so he desperately tries to concoct something out of memories of the few times he’s been in racy gay bars. Not very successfully, but at least he’s trying, right?

By the time he has the T-shirt off, Taron hesitates—he doesn’t know whether or not he should try his luck and throw the discarded garment in Richard’s face, a provocative gesture that would probably gain him a _punishment_ of some sort. His insides tingle and his cock twitches at the thought of that happening, so he decides to toss the T-shirt, which hits Richard square in the face and lands in his lap.

Richard makes a noise, which sounds like it’s halfway between appreciation and fury. Taron is standing near enough to the couch for Richard to be able to reach out a hand and hook his index finger in the waistband of his shorts, pulling him in even closer with a swift tug.

Taron is startled at this unforeseen turn of events—he was not expecting his shins to hit the seat quite as quickly and hard, and he almost loses his balance. Almost, because Richard’s right hand has already shifted to cup his right buttock, holding him in place. And now Richard is looking up at him—his head is at the level of Taron’s crotch, and his blue eyes are clouded with lust.

 _Fuck_ , what a pretty picture that is. Taron briefly ponders dying right there and then, because the material of his shorts is very light, and he feels Richard’s hot breath directly on his cock, now, and he’s not sure he’ll ever see or feel anything more arousing in his remaining years on this Earth. Of which, at this pace, it looks like there’s just going to be a few.

Richard tuts. Shakes his head. Lays a second hand on Taron’s other buttcheek, delivering a tiny spank, which makes Taron do a weird little jump. He then squeezes it, gently.

“Taron. I thought ye were going tae be a good boy for me?”

He’s resting his chin just a few inches above Taron’s erection now, and he’s close, so freaking close, still looking up at him, smirking, and the word that best describes his gaze is _obscene_.

Taron doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t really want to rebel with words, only actions, because it’s just easier, and because he thinks it will be more rewarding. All he can do now is look down at Richard, bite his lip, and murmur, almost imperceptibly, _sorry_. His eyes, however, scream _please, please, please_.

“Oh, ye want me to take these off, now, do ye?”, Richard teases, as he’s fingering the waistband of Taron’s shorts, and yes, all Taron wants is for him to yank them off and smack his arse and suck him dry, but he can’t say that out loud, can’t demand anything, because it’s against the rules. He just nods, again, softly, and begs. Out loud, this time.

“Y-yes, please Richard, _please_ , Richard, take them off.” _Even if I don’t deserve it._

He really can’t keep looking at Richard, because even just the simple image of him like this enables his brain to send dangerous messages right down to his cock, and the messages are saying it’s completely okay to come right now, because _how can something more indecent even exist_. So, he diverges his gaze for a split second, resolving that just closing his eyes is really the best choice right now.

Taron doesn’t quite understand how or why, but Richard doesn’t retort, and can’t believe his luck when he feels the soft fabric being peeled, impossibly slowly, off his body. The shorts slide down his thighs and pool around his feet in a timespan that simultaneously feels like twenty-five sunny days and three very brief seconds.

Richard hums appreciatively at the sight of Taron’s completely naked body. “No pants, huh?”, he murmurs.

Taron is exposed, now, completely and achingly hard. A light breeze comes in from the window of the trailer, open just a crack, and mixes with Richard’s hot, wet breath, who is now directly grazing his cock. Taron dares to look down, at _that_ , those hungry eyes, that knowing smile, that pretty, pretty face _so_ close to his pleasure centre, and he _mewls_ , and, well, he momentarily loses it.

“ _Richard_ , please touch me, pleasepleaseplease, I’ll be good, pr—oh, _God!_ ”

Taron is rudely cut off by Richard’s _tongue_ , which starts licking a thin line along his rock hard cock, base to head, like it’s no big deal, like he doesn’t know he’s on a murder quest. By the time Richard’s tongue reaches the tip, making sure to clean off the embarrassing amount of moisture already there, blue eyes are suddenly back to piercing Taron, who has been watching the whole thing biting down so hard on his lip to stop himself from screaming, he’s now tasting blood.

Richard makes a light smacking sound when his lips close around the tip of Taron’s cock, and then the heat is gone as quickly as it came, a wicked smile painted on his face. Taron wonders how much longer his heart is going to hold up.

“Ye really don’t deserve this, ye know”, Richard states, matter-of-factly, falling back to rest against the couch. His right hand is still resting on Taron’s thigh, and his face is suddenly hard, angry—though still very hungry. “Ye’ve been bad, Taron. And do ye know wha’ happens to boys who don’t behave?”

Taron feels like he should let him explain what happens to bad boys, so he shakes his head, while Richard’s fingers are red-hot on his left thigh, like cigarette burns.

“They get punished, Taron.” The way he says _punished_ , his accent thick and rough, is the filthiest thing Taron’s ever heard.

“Oh.”

“Hmm-hmm.” Richard pushes on his thigh to make him walk backwards from the couch, and then he stands up, towering him. He now looks _down_ at him, murmurs “Bed, Taron, right noo”, and proceeds to fuck off somewhere next to the vanity mirror in Taron’s trailer, where all the makeup and the Elton bits and bobs are.

Taron doesn’t dare defy that order, because how can he, so he walks, slowly but with purpose, in the general direction of the bed. For a brief moment, everything his eyes fall upon seems to be covered in some sort of mist, and, next thing he knows, two single tears are trickling down both his eyes. Which is when he realises his brain must be overheating. He needs clarity.

_A good spanking might help._

The silence has been so deep and meaningful and charged for the past ten minutes—broken just by ragged breathing, shuffling of fabric, and other kind of obscenities, that it’s almost bizarre when Taron hears music coming out of his Sonos.

Yeah, they have Wi-Fi and he’s brought his fancy speaker. Again, sue him.

Even stranger is when he actually recognises the tune. Because it’s _that_ song. _That fucking song_. The one he lost his recording studio virginity to. The one he hasn’t heard in almost a full year, because, like many people, he hates the sound of his voice on tape—he’s always felt like that line Ed Sheeran wrote for Harry Styles also fits _him_ perfectly, and now he remembers why.

_I’m shouting_

_Don’t care who is listening_

_Don’t live here, I’m visiting_

_To go where I’ve never been_

Richard is strolling towards the bed, casually pulling his James Dean white tee over his head, never breaking eye contact with Taron, and his wicked grin is back. Taron can only imagine he’s feeling cheeky for knowing about the song, and playing it at this right moment, of all times. As movie songs go, this one is admittedly niche—Christ, Taron’s name is barely even mentioned on the album cover—plus he’s not entirely sure Richard has actually watched _Eddie_ at all. And yet, the song is still playing, softly, an odd soundtrack to the sex-charged atmosphere in Taron’s trailer.

“Great fucking tune, isnae it?” Richard muses, while he approaches the spot on the edge of the bed where Taron is sitting. Then he adds, “Had so many good wanks to it, ye don’t even know.”

When Taron looks up at Richard, he’s now thinking about him jerking off to the sound of this 80’s beat, pumping himself to the rhythm of the music, and really all he can manage as his voice breaks is a weak “H-have you?”

“Hmm-hmm”, Richard nods, as he pushes Taron flat on the bed, and climbs on him, his right hand caressing his own chest, trailing along his lower abdomen, and coming down to finally free himself from his jeans. One button at a time, slowly, methodically. “Yer lovely voice, the music, suggestive lyrics. It’s perfect. I’ve been hooked since the first time I heard it.”

The fact that a boxer briefs waistband fails to peek out from Richard’s flies after the second button is undone speaks volumes on the fact that Richard’s not wearing _anything_ underneath his distressed Levi’s. Taron feels like he’s in a porn film when the head of Richard’s cock reveals itself. The third, then the fourth button go as well, and Richard is finally exposed to his avid gaze.

Taron can’t help but sigh at the sight in front of him and, without thinking, reaches a hand out to touch him.

_I’m reaching_

_Cause this isn’t far enough_

_There’s more in this heart than love_

_Won’t stop till I’m high above_

Richard bats Taron’s hand away. He then crouches over Taron, grabs his chin roughly, squeezes his jaw and talks, no, _growls_ directly into his ear, his breathing rasped and feral.

“I thought I’d been clear, Taron, ye really need tae obey me right noo. Ye’ve been bad, ye deserve a punishment. Don’t wantae go adding anymore red tae your ledger, do ye?”

It’s all so raunchy, so hot, so dirty, Taron feels like he’s going to explode—and, _God_ , why is he suddenly thinking of Scarlett Johansson when _Richard_ is all over him, looking and sounding like he is right now. Taron manages to shake his head, his eyes planted into Richard’s lust-filled orbs.

“No, no, I’m sorry, Rich. I’ll be good, I promise. You’re right, I—I need to be punished.”

Richard’s grasp untightens, and his face is hovering over Taron’s, that twisted smile back in place.

“Ye bet ye do.”

He manhandles Taron at this point. Flips him round, so that his front is flushed on the mattress, and his bum is exposed to the elements. Exposed to Richard and his undivided attention.

“I want ye to look, Taron. Look in the mirror.”

There is, indeed, a mirror in Taron’s trailer, right next to the bed. It’s a big, rectangular glass, where Taron has often found himself squeezing in his many tight-fitting, outrageous Elton outfits, examining how simply _hideous_ his thighs look in them, and sometimes even pinching away at extra bits of fat around his middle area, sighing out loud.

The sight Taron is met with when he turns to face it now, though, is something else entirely. He sees himself, in the dim light of the trailer—lying down, slightly helplessly, the curve of his arse admittedly impressive above the covers. Towering him, his jeans open and only halfway off, is Richard, piercing him with his stern gaze across the mirror, fingertips grazing the soft skin of his bum so excruciatingly softly, Taron positively shudders with anticipation. Richard’s hard cock is dangerously close now, and Taron swears he can feel the heat radiating from it.

“I’m going tae need ye tae _count_ , baby.”

_I’m cursed with anticipation_

_I have no time for conversation_

_Look at me, I’m free to do what I want_

_What I want_

Richard smacks his right cheek firmly, and it’s loud, and it’s hot, and it _hurts_. Taron sees it all happen in the mirror, and finds that Richard’s expression upon impact is just exquisite. Concentration, lust, anger, control, all painted on his beautiful face. He definitely looks like he’s enjoying every minute of this. When Taron inevitably yelps, Richard bites down on his lower lip, and he moans, audibly, obscenely.

“One.”

“Mmh, yes, baby, so good for me”, Richard murmurs, appreciatively, admiring how red Taron’s burning skin is turning in the spot where his hand has delivered the blow.

A second blow lands on Taron’s left cheek, much harder than the first one, and it has Taron squirming in discomfort. Meanwhile, the mirror’s image, as well as the fact that his aching erection is pressed against the covers, are effectively sending Taron on a one-way trip into oblivion.

“T-Two…”, Taron manages. It’s more difficult, this time. More praise from Richard, though, which is good, oh, _so so good_.

Three more slaps are delivered, quickly, efficiently, quite brutally, and they desperately sting. Hot tears pool into Taron’s eyes at this point, and it’s a shame, because he can’t see clearly in the mirror anymore. He closes his eyes, then, and rests his forehead on the covers, panting.

“Three, four, five”, Taron gets out, and it takes even longer to catch his breath, now.

_I’m hurting, but know I can take the pain_

_It’s here with me everyday_

_Without it there’s nothing to gain_

He feels Richard’s hand creep up onto his back and on the nape of his neck, before long fingers spread out in his hair, and they tug his head up, roughly, away from the bed. Richard’s breath is scorching his skin in the most amazing way, and Taron is not sure how much this hair-pulling situation is actually supposed to dissuade him from misbehaving, because, frankly, he’s absolutely bloody here for it.

“I said _look_ , Taron. The mirror. Want me tae add ten more, do ye?”

_What if I do?_

But Taron shakes his head, desperately, because that’s what Richard wants. Tears are now rolling down his cheeks, and he shoots his gaze up and towards the mirror. What he sees in it sends such a desperate jolt of pleasure to his dick, he thinks he might come without even needing to be touched.

In short, Richard looks like a damn porn actor. His muscular torso and shoulders are sweaty and glistening in the soft light of the bedroom. His jeans are open, pushed down—his arse is almost fully out, but not entirely, which is just _delicious_ , because it leaves some space for Taron’s imagination to run wild. Finally, his cock is in his hand, and he’s pumping it at a methodical, deliberate speed, his expert fingers running up and down, massaging slowly. And Taron is now absolutely sure he’s ready to beg again.

“Fuck, Rich… _Fuck_ ”, he whimpers, his eyes effectively rolling back in his head, the urge to touch himself now unbearable. “Please, fuck me, please…”

Richard sniggers at this. _Cheeky._

“So bloody needy, eh, babe?” Richard looks Taron directly in the eyes on the mirror. Then looks down at his hand, which is still stroking his cock, and the vision is _indecent_ as it can be. “Was it something I said?”

Unexpectedly, Taron’s arse is met with two more blows from Richard’s free hand. Taron cries out, because it hurts, but it’s also very fucking hot, and then melts in a puddle of want when he feels Richard straddle him, and Richard’s cock starting to rub against his arse. Nestled inbetween his cheeks. Just moving, slowly, like he’s fucking into him, except he’s not, not yet, and Taron is painfully aware this is absolutely _not enough_.

It’s scorching hot, and it’s slick, and it’s _so close_ , and Taron just wants Richard to fill him up and ruin him.

Richard bends down to murmur into Taron’s ear, still stroking himself against his smooth, perky arse.

“I think ye’re forgetting something, darling.”

Taron can’t for the life of him work out whatever the hell Richard— _oh,_ _fuck, fuck, fuck, it’s so damn long and thick_ —is on about.

_Once bitten, the harder it is to see_

_The harder it is to believe_

_What’s burning inside of me_

Whispering “Fuck…” inbetween incoherent moans is all Taron can manage. “Fuck… me… please…”, he adds, providing unnecessary detail to his plea.

Richard is off him in a heartbeat, all heat gone, and his weight shifts to the side of Taron’s body. For the second time that evening, Taron finds himself being quite literally jostled around on the bed—Richard flips him back over, quickly, effortlessly. Before Taron can get even a glimpse of his face, Richard is all over him, straddling him once again, pinning him down, and sloppily kissing, no, _biting_ his neck.

“No”, Richard growls against his skin. “Ye’re so fucking greedy, ye know that.” Each word is paced by a trail of hungry kisses, bites, suckles on Taron’s sensitive neck, and Taron knows he’s leaving marks, and he’s positively losing his mind at this point.

“I think the spanking wasn’t enough for ye. Ye still _talk_ too much. Going tae fill that pretty little mooth o’ yers, now. Ye don’t mind, do ye.”

It doesn’t even _remotely_ sound like a question.

_All to give, I know I’ve given_

_Living is my only mission_

_To see only submission, that’s what I want_

_What I want_

By the time Taron is struck with the realisation of what is about to happen, Richard’s hot breath has already left his neck. Richard has now moved on to nibble on Taron’s earlobe— _my bad boy, so pretty_ , the dirty talk now unbearable. And then he’s away for good, concentrating on shifting further up Taron’s body and lining the head of his throbbing cock with Taron’s lips. They’re waiting, slightly parted, and Taron’s tongue immediately makes an appearance, licking his upper lip just before Richard tentatively pushes his length inside Taron’s hot, wet mouth, and Taron tastes the salty, tangy precum on its head, and struggles not to roll his eyes back in his head, because this is all just too hot for him to take in a single sitting and be able to maintain even an ounce of sanity.

_Never going to finish this bloody film, are we._

Richard _shudders_. He pushes his jeans further down the curve of his arse, and then his hands are in Taron’s hair, stroking it, appreciatively, encouragingly, eagerly. He’s thick and unbearably hard, and Taron’s throat convulses involuntarily around him, gagging, spit escaping the corners of his mouth. His eyes fill with tears, but he simply refuses to give up. He’s done it before, after all—albeit never in this position, and never with someone this, well, let’s just say _endowed_ , whom he fancies so deeply and profoundly. It all feels very intimate, in a weird way that tingles his feelings, as well as firing up the pit in his stomach. Plus, the way Richard is looking down at him right now is simply too precious to let it go to waste. Taron definitely knows he can take it.

Richard thrusts, cautiously at first, but quickly seems to get lost in the blissful sensation of Taron’s tongue, expertly swirling around his shaft, to keep up the gentle act. Richard’s blue pearls are penetrating Taron almost as deeply as his cock is buried in his mouth, and he’s whispering, incoherently, gripping tightly at the sides of Taron’s head while he bucks his hips forward.

“So—so good for me, T… Oh, fuck, ye take it so well, mah perfect boy…”

Taron can’t help but moan, loudly, at this, which inevitably sends vibrations down Richard’s cock, and he ends up bucking his hips deeper into his throat. Taron hates is so fucking much when his gag reflex kicks in, and his own body fights to reject Richard’s obscene attentions.

Richard is out of his mouth in no time, letting him come up for air—which he does, sucking in, eagerly, desperately. It’s so familiar and so sweet and yet so _hot_ when Richard runs a thumb over his lower lip, glossy and wet with saliva. Taron is brought back to the infamous time that gesture was caught on camera, and he’s suddenly even more excited to see the final cut.

“Ye’re such a fucking _pretty_ picture with mah cock in yer mouth, ye know that, mmh?”, Richard coos, his voice raspy and accented, his look a perfectly balanced mixture between undying love and soul-shaking lust.

Taron bites down on his lower lip, right where Richard’s thumb has just graced him, and he smiles, coyly, hoping to make Richard lose his mind, since he’s so clearly already on that path, anyways.

_Nailing this._

“I want to be good for you, Richard. I want to make you _feel_ good. Please…”

Taron’s throat is rough from being overstimulated, so it physically hurts to talk. The helpless twink plea seems to work its magic, though, because Richard’s cock is back in his mouth in such a swift move, Taron feels like all air is instantaneously knocked out of his lungs.

Richard thrusts harder, faster, deeper, his whole weight resting on his contracted arms, which are pushing against the bed’s wooden headboard. He’s closed his eyes, now, and the sounds that escape his mouth are so filthy, Taron knows for a fact they will be forever burnt in his mind, a flawless soundtrack for future alone time in the shower.

Richard’s hopeless, unhinged thrusts have quickly made it impossible for Taron to move his tongue, so he resolves to taking it all in, gagging, gurgling on saliva he can’t really swallow, making a mess of himself, and starting to palm his now excruciatingly aching erection feels like the only right thing to do. He hums, relieved, and relaxes his throat muscles, allowing Richard to go deeper. Until, that is, Taron feels like he really can’t take it anymore. So he tries to speak, while Richard is still balls deep in his mouth, and the sound that escapes from it is unintelligible.

Luckily, Richard seems to have retained a tad of self-control, because he’s now retracting again, his gleaming erection leaving a trail of spit on Taron’s chin and chest while he does so.

“What’s that, noo, love?”

Taron coughs, because he can’t really do much else right now. Finally, he manages to speak.

“I said—fuck me, Richard. Please. I want to feel you everywhere.”

And it’s only appropriate, when Taron’s own voice from the speaker— _the song, the song, the_ fucking _song_ —goes into the final chorus.

_Come on, thrill me_

_Come on, kill me_

_Feel the blood rush 'round the body_

_Can’t hold it in and I can’t fight it_

_Can’t turn away and I can’t hide it_

“Oh, alright then, I guess…”, Richard finally concedes, his breathing still irregular from working himself up by ravishing Taron’s mouth. “Since yer pretty mouth was _so good_ to me, and since ye’re asking _so_ _nicely_ , I reckon I _will_ fuck you, baby.”

At Richard’s words, Taron lets out an exhausted, triumphant groan. He’s aching all over now—his arse still sore from Richard’s rough spanking, his throat burning from the wild blowjob, and his insides boiling with earth-shattering desire.

“Fuck, Rich, I want you so bad, please, I need—”

Taron has missed the heartbeat it has taken Richard to move down on his body and grip his painful neglected cock, which causes him to stop begging and just purely cry out, pain and pleasure hitting him in a swift, red hot wave. Then Richard’s tongue is on the base of his shaft, on his balls, dangerously close to his hole, and Taron bucks his hips into him, helpless, hopeless, desperate.

He then hears Richard hum against his most sensitive parts, before coming back up, again, that fucking tongue trailing the length of his dick from base to tip, _again_ , teasing him, threatening to make him come right there and then. He plants a soft kiss on the dripping wet head of Taron’s cock, just as he murmurs, inquisitively, _lube?_ , to which Taron gestures in the general direction of the bedside table, before finally being able to relax his back—it’s been hurting him, being arched like that.

Richard is gone and back in no time, and his jeans have also vanished in a swift motion and now lay discarded on the floor, next to the bed. His cock is still glistening, hard, glorious, while he bends back down over Taron and pushes his heels back, so that his legs are curled up, knees on each side of his chest, his arse now accessible and painfully exposed. Taron feels like a helpless little boy. If he’d known that losing control like this would give him this big of a kick, he would have done it _ages_ ago. He’s glad it’s Richard and not anybody else, though. So glad.

When Richard finally, _finally_ pushes one finger into him, Taron is almost sure he can see stars behind his closed eyes. The sensation is new, intrusive, slightly uncomfortable, but becomes so quickly addictive, Taron can’t help but beg for more.

Richard obliges, sliding one, then two more fingers in him, searching for and finding Taron’s most sensitive spot, curling his fingers up inside Taron, reveling in the filthy talk escaping his lips, until Taron begs him to stop.

“I—can’t, going to—come, please, need you inside me, _now_.”

Taron can’t see him—his eyes are still shut, yet he knows that somewhere from inbetween his legs Richard has managed to smirk, because Taron is being very bossy about this whole thing. Not that he cares, anyways.

Richard’s fingers are gone, and Taron finally manages to get his eyes to open. He simply cannot miss the sight of Richard, positioning himself against his entrance, one hand on his cock, the other coming onto Taron’s thigh, gripping it, roughly, avidly, as he pushes inside him. He desperately needs it for his archives.

_Come on, find me_

_Come on, blind me_

_Look, the fear is far behind me_

_What was just a dream now will be_

_I’m calling to the world_

_Come on, come on, thrill me_

Richard’s thrusts are slow, tentative, calculated. He lets himself sink into Taron completely, his abs contracting in the most beautiful way, both his hands clutching Taron’s thighs, so hard, in fact, Taron bets, _hopes_ he will leave marks. Blue orbs stray away from Taron’s wet eyes, to concentrate on whatever the hell is going on further down, where their bodies are meeting, fitting together, perfectly. Like Taron is the missing puzzle piece he’s been looking for his whole life. At that thought, Taron’s heart is suddenly full.

“Oh, my _God_ , Richard.”

Soon as he’s in wholly, adjusted to Taron’s warmth, a few profanities escaping his mouth— _fuck, baby, so fucking tight, my God_ —Richard finally starts moving. He clearly knows what he’s doing, because he only has to try two slightly different angles before he finds what he’s looking for. Taron’s head falls back on the pillow, then, and he’s, again, moaning helplessly, because he’s never felt so good in his entire fucking life. Fingers, vibrators, they’re all fun and games, and a nice way to spend his time while waiting for the perfect sexual partner to come into his life. But there’s just something about Richard’s cock, and his hands, and his bloody perfect body, and his loving attentions through it all, that scream to Taron he might actually have found him.

“ _Fuck_ , Rich… Right there, _please_ , _harder_.”

Richard doesn’t retort, he can’t, so he resolves to simply oblige. He pumps in and out of Taron’s stretched, hypersensitive hole fervently, determination and straining pleasure painted on his beautiful face.

When Richard’s body comes down to rest, flush, against Taron’s, and Richard is quickly moaning his ear, and he’s nibbling at his lobe, and Richard’s abs are creating some delicious friction between Taron’s cock and both their bellies, Taron finally understands he really, really can’t hold it in anymore.

He bucks his hips, rejoicing the welcome heat and the rubbing motion over his cock, one hand gripping at Richard’s shoulder, the other on Richard’s head, undecided on whether to push Richard closer to his ear or pull his hair, because _so good, Richard, fuuuck, oh, God, yes._

The buildup to Taron’s orgasm is slow, raw, and oh so delightful. It feels like he’s on a rollercoaster, getting higher and higher and higher still, anticipation growing in his stomach, pleasure and pain mixing into a delicious cocktail that tastes a million times sweeter than any caipirinhas he’s ever had—because it tastes and smells like _Richard_ , and his eyes, and his mouth, and his damn cock hitting his sweet, sweet spot, relentless, refusing to stop.

The rollercoaster ride attends its climax as soon as Richard bucks into Taron, three, four, five times, smacking his thighs hard against his arse, the noises escaping his mouth filthy as they can be. This is the tipping point, the moment when thunder claps and lightning strikes in the stormy clouds of Taron’s brain. He finally shoots his load, hot and wet, on his own chest, and rides the orgasm like a Californian surfer, basking in how he’s never felt _anything_ like this before, and his words are slurred, and all he can think is _Richard, Richard, Richard_ as his hands fall back to the sides of his head, surrendering, letting it all happen.

Richard groans appreciatively at this and props himself up on his arms once again, taking in the post-coital hazy mess Taron currently is in, beneath him. How he manages to talk, really, is a bloody mystery not even Cumberbatch in his best Sherlock days could unravel right now.

“T… baby… so… perfect… so… pretty… oh, _God_ ”, Richard moans, each word coupled with a deep, hard thrust, sweat dripping down his brow, jaw muscles clenching, drowned in the overwhelming sensation of Taron’s tightening, overstimulated hole, which he’s still absolutely not done with.

And then he does something. It’s tentative, shy at first, like everything they’ve experimented with tonight, but not for that reason does it lack purpose. He shifts his weight on his left arm, and he brings his right hand around Taron’s neck. Possessively holding him in place, while he’s still fucking into him. And clearly looking for Taron’s approval to really go all out, because he’s afraid he’ll hurt him, that maybe this is just way too much for him to take in one sitting.

Taron can’t believe his luck when the unspoken promise of being choked comes up via Richard’s hand on his neck. Up until this point, he’s not realised how much he really _needs_ it—he still is riding his orgasm high and he wants it to last for approximately a thousand lifetimes. And yeah, he’s done it before, course he has. In fact, breathplay might just be his favourite kink, one that gets him every single time, so the only thing he can bring really bring himself to do to reply to Richard’s silent plea is to strain his neck into Richard’s touch, letting him know that it’s okay, it’s perfect, and he wants _more_.

Richard grunts as he rolls his head back for a moment, a wave of pleasure visibly hitting him hard at the eager consent coming from Taron. He looks at him again, then, bites his lower lip and squeezes his neck, roughly, expertly, making him wheeze and gasp for air.

“God, Taron… fucking… killing… me”, Richard manages, his whole body straining in the effort to maintain pressure on Taron’s neck, while still pounding, crude, loud, pornographic, in and out of him.

Oxygen deprivation gets Taron very high, very quickly. He feels his eyes sting and he shuts them, because he thinks they will pop out of their sockets if he keeps them open for even a single second more. Richard’s cock starts hitting his prostate again, and he knows he can’t possibly come again, it’s just not _anatomically_ possible, but the delicious electric fog in his brain almost feels like a second orgasm is about to hit him. He so wishes he was a woman, sometimes.

An orgasm does hit him, sudden, almost unannounced—just not his own. Richard’s hand is suddenly off his neck when he all but collapses on top of him, propped on his forearms, panting, moaning, broken. He thrusts one, two, three more times and finally comes, hard, inside him. Taron is suddenly so very grateful they haven’t used a condom. Has been since the beginning, to be fair, but especially so now, because there’s nothing quite like feeling Richard quite literally _filling him up_. It’s everything he’s ever wanted, really—to experience something, someone, this profoundly and completely.

Richard kisses him, then, and it’s full of meaning and unspoken romanticism. His tongue is greedy and demanding, his scent is more inebriating than it’s ever been, and the way he holds him, caringly, lovingly, words of thanks lost in his post-orgasm haze, simply makes Taron’s heart burst.

Then Richard’s arms threaten to give way, he’s exhausted, the poor love, so he withdraws himself from Taron’s stretched hole—which is excruciating, really, because Taron doesn’t _ever_ want to be less close to him than this— and lets Taron rest his legs back down on the mattress.

He then lies down next to Taron, his upper body rising and falling, drenched in sweat, glistening from it. Taron finds the droplets of wetness trapped inbetween his chest hair weirdly erotic, enticing really, and reaches a hand out to caress him, right in that spot. While he does, he turns his head slightly upwards, and nuzzles into Richard’s neck, inhaling his scent fully, feeling completely at peace with the world and with himself. The silence between them is pregnant, poignant, but also beautifully comfortable. _Comfortable_ , incidentally, is an adjective he’s started to associate with Richard more and more these days, and he doesn’t mind at all, really.

It’s only when he once again becomes aware of the sound coming out of the Sonos, which is still blasting that damn _Eddie_ song, that Taron has a passing moment of clarity. More specifically, he realises it’s absolutely not possible that the blasted thing has played only one time, during that whole thing, whatever that was, that just happened with Richard. It feels like they were at it for absolute _hours_ , for crying out loud—even if, more realistically, it was maybe only just less than one, but that’s really not the point. The point is that, heavens, _Richard has put it on bloody “repeat one” mode, hasn’t he_.

Taron looks up at Richard from the spot he’s resting on, on his shoulder, and grins manically, before bursting into a fit of giggles. Richard is puzzled at the sight of him, clearly, because although he starts smiling too, he also furrows his brow in confusion.

“Are ye _quite_ alright, love?”

Taron nods, and snuggles even closer, if at all possible, so that his forehead is resting on Richard’s temple, and his mouth is on Richard’s earlobe. He nibbles at it, playfully.

“Oh, I’m wonderful, Rich. In fact, _you_ ’re wonderful”, he declares, a hand now coming up to cup Richard’s opposite cheek and applying gentle pressure there, so that Richard will turn to face him, on the pillow. Richard obliges, and he’s gorgeous, of course. His stupidly blue eyes are now regaining the innocent, shy boy trademark look that momentarily been thrown out the window just earlier, while the pair of them were going at it like rabbits.

Now they’re facing each other, Taron really can’t contain himself anymore, so he speaks up about the giant elephant in the room.

“Rich—that song. You really love it, don’t you?”

Richard, well, _blushes_. Leave it to him to get all bashful about something so endearing and chaste, when less than half an hour ago he was busy rubbing his cock up on Taron’s arse and torturing him into oblivion.

“Aye—yeah, I really, really do”, Richard concedes, coyly. “I’ve loved it since the first time I saw _Eddie the Eagle_. Went to the bloody pictures, with mah mum and everything, too. It’s so good, T. You’re so good.”

Richard is so fucking adorable while he blurts all this out, Taron really is not quite sure what to do with him, or himself, for that matter. His ego has just been stroked big time, and by none other than the absolute dreamiest man in showbiz, and he really wants to pinch himself right now, because he can’t comprehend how in the world he has managed to get so lucky.

Taron is so long gone, lost in Richard’s eyes, and forgets that he isn’t actually getting any words out, too busy thinking about how he absolutely and completely in love he is, but not quite mustering the courage to say it yet. Oh, trust him to get all soppy after sex. This feels so much like he’s back playing Elton right now, it’s kind of creeping him out.

“Darling, ye alright?”, Richard asks.

Taron snaps out of it, briefly ponders whether speaking his truth right now would be overkill, and he decides that, yes, it might be. Better leave it to next time. Time to go back to being a cheeky shit, ‘cause that’s what he does best, after all.

“Oh, I am, don’t you worry, babe. It’s just—I was wondering how it’s even possible for you to switch from giving me the best dicking of my entire bloody life to _this_ cute little kitten act you’ve got going on right now. You really should be illegal, Richard Madden, you know that?”

Taron’s smile is wide and warm, and his happiness is complete.

“Yeah, ye’re probably right aboot that.”, Richard agrees.

“I hate you.”

“No, ye don’t.”

“No, I don’t.”

After what only feels like five minutes, but more likely is a few hours, Taron wakes up. Richard’s still in bed with him, his gorgeous body sprawled on the covers, exposed, because the trailer is horrendously warm and they’re sharing a very small kip, usually meant for just one person.

Needless to say, they’re both absolutely drenched in sweat, and it really is kind of disgusting, thinking about it. Except Taron still gets lost contemplating Richard’s sleeping body, in all its glory, and finds himself going on a strange ride down memory lane. He desperately tries to pinpoint every single moment that has lead him here, now, and shudders at the thought that there might have been infinite other timelines where none of this would ever have happened. Kinda like Jared Leto’s characters in _Mr. Nobody_.

But he does manage to find the bottom line to all this, the moment where the blue touch paper was officially lit. His audition for _Kingsman_. And Matthew motherfucking Vaughn. Taron takes a moment to thank his lucky stars for making their paths cross.

His mind then wonders back to the present, and to Richard, and the mind-boggling sex, and, well, the _goddamn_ song. He knows he has to do this now, or else he’ll be buzzing and unable to sleep—not like he’s managing that one very well, now, anyways.

He whips his phone out, unlocks it, and sends a text.

_I know it’s been a while since you wrote me that song. Just checking in to tell you it might just have been the reason I got laid last night. So, again, thank you. From the bottom of my heart._

Taron is surprised when Gary’s text comes back, not even five minutes later.

_Alright mate, TMI much? JK. I’m glad. Would be curious to know how, though, not exactly a love song, is it?_

Taron chuckles and quickly writes back.

_Oh, Gaz, you really don’t wanna know that._

He imagines Gary sitting up in his bed and laughing about him with his wife, and he feels kind of silly for texting him now, but he really can’t help being his sassy, saucy self sometimes. He just rolls with it, most days. Gary’s reply comes in.

_Yeah, maybe not. Good on ya, mate. And I’m glad I wrote you that song, by the way._

Before Taron has the chance to answer, another text arrives, right after.

_You’re one of the good ones, Taron. Never forget that._

Taron puts his phone down, smiling like a fool, and goes back to cuddling Richard, just when dawn is breaking on another hot August day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was a whole hecking thing and, you guys, I'm so happy I'm done with it.  
> I hope you liked it. It drove me absolutely bananas.
> 
> As usual, love you. x


End file.
